Healing Magic
by Whytheface
Summary: A decade later and Draco Malfoy's life revolves around work, paying the rent, and not getting beaten up by drunken wizards who know how to hold a grudge. However, when a line is crossed, who will step in and demand justice?
1. Chapter 1

AN: I don't own HP or any of the characters

**HEALING MAGIC**

The past ten years had not been easy for me. The Malfoy name was in shambles and the enormous war reparations that the New Ministry had forced us to pay left my mother and me with only our manor and the furniture inside. My father was no longer with us, having been sentenced to Azkaban for the remainder of his life. Although my mother and I may have gotten off for preventing the death of the boy-who-lived, my father was still considered the same deatheater scum he had always been; there was no chance of leniency in his case.

So my mother and I began life without our father; however, I don't know if you could truly call it living. In return for not convicting us to Azkaban, the Wizengot restricted all magic done by any member of the Malfoy family. Neither my mother, myself, nor any living relative with the Malfoy last name could cast any spell more serious than a strong scorgify. I was left with almost no way to protect, transport, or even support myself

If I sound bitter, it's only because I am. How could I not be? My mother and I were left to auction off our precious belongings in order to eat while Potter, Weasel and Granger's photographs made the front cover of every teen wizarding magazine in existence. And you wouldn't believe the frenzy when Potter married the girl Weasel almost eight years ago. Rita Skeeter is still reporting on "Potter-Weasley's wonderful and winsome wedding." In fact, in her article today, detailing the birth of their second child, Severus Albus Potter, she uses that exact phrase three times. Three times too many, in my opinion.

I'm sure at this point, you're wondering how in Merlin's name I know what Rita Skeeter writes let alone her exact phrasing. Well, as the Daily Prophet's assistant head fact checker, reading her articles is my job. A job, my coworkers remind me daily, that I am damn lucky to have. I learned quickly enough that a deatheater's last name does not get one far in life. As it happens, all one receives with it (and the signature platinum hair) is the occasional trip to St. Mungo's emergency medical ward. Some people really can't let sleeping dogs lie.

So here I am, early evening, and I'm sitting in a chair waiting for a healer to mend the broken arm and 2 bruised ribs I had received from a few very drunken (and very angry) pub dwellers when in walks the Weasel. I'm not surprised, he is the head healer of this district of St. Mungo's, but what does surprise me is when he starts walking in my direction. I've been to the emergency ward 11 times before and never have I even looked at by, let alone encountered Weasel in all of my many hours here.

"Mr. Malfoy." I raise my eyes to meet his gaze and his lips turn up in an impersonal smile. Weasel's filled out since Hogwarts, and although he looks slightly charming, I'm positive he uses that smile on all of his patients, or, at least, the patients he doesn't want to see. His eyes rake over me, and for some reason I want to squirm a bit in my seat. My hair is mussed, my lip split, and my eye black, none of which are a good look for me. Of course I don't squirm, as that would let Weasel know how uncomfortable I feel, but I do take this moment to grunt harshly and break the silence,

"Looking for something Weasley?" Weasel raises a ginger eyebrow and huffs in amusement. What I had tried to make sound threatening and imposing came out weak and defeated thanks to the cracks in my voice.

"Tell me Malfoy, how does a bloke like you end up in the emergency ward twelve times in the past nine years?" I just stare at him, not willing to risk another embarrassing voice crack. Unfortunately for me, Weasel seems to have grown a back bone in the past decade and stares right back. I lose the silent battle and break the quiet.

"Why do you care Weasel?" My voice is a bit stronger this time and Weasley huffs again, but this time he's not amused.

"Listen Malfoy, I know you don't like me. Hell, I don't like you either. But I take my job very seriously, and when someone comes in bloody and bruised more than once a year for nine years straight, I have to find out why. So tell me. Why?"

"I fell."

"You bloody well did not." I'm not going to argue with Weasel. I didn't fall and we both know it, but admitting that inebriated men who can't let the past go like to beat me up at every given opportunity is not something said easily. To be honest, I think I would rather suffer an infection from my wounds than tell him. Weasel raises an eyebrow and stands up straight, looking like he's not going to stop questioning me until he gets what he came here for.

"I can't treat you until you tell me what happened, Malfoy." I continue to stare at him. "Malfoy, I'm not going to beg, and until I know, I'm not going to fix your arm either. Let go of your stupid family pride and tell me."

That was the final straw. Standing up quickly, I pushed Weasel lightly out of the way with my good shoulder and made for the exit, walking as quickly as I could, whilst being careful to not bump into anyone else; I didn't want any more vendettas on my hands than I already had. When I finally made it to the street, ignoring Weasel's shouts behind me, I turned down the nearest alley way and collapsed. I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, or shout. Family pride. The phrase sounded ridiculous to me now. If there was one thing I didn't have, it was family pride. There was nothing to be proud of. My father was rotting away in a stone cell, my mother living in a sparse guest room at the manor, the furniture of my childhood decorating someone else's gaudy home. My situation wasn't much better than my parent's either. Sitting in a cramped closet office all day, barely making enough money to cover rent, bills, and food, all of which were extremely hard to come by; most stores didn't even let me past the front door.

Letting my head fall back to rest against the alley wall, I supposed that maybe Weasel was right, my pride did get in the way. If I didn't have so much broken pride, I would have been able to tell Weasel what had happened. Had I not had pride, I would have walked right back into St. Mungo's and demanded he treat me, begged even. But I did have too much pride. It wasn't inspired by my family, no, but by my wish to not be any more humiliated than I had this past decade. Already, that weight was too much to bear.

"To [Rochester] I suppose." I muttered to myself, wincing as I jostled my arm while trying to stand. William Rochester's of London was the closest muggle hospital, and one I visited frequently enough. For obvious reasons, I didn't like to go to St. Mungo's every time someone took offense to me, so, as ironic as it was, I went to a hospital facilitated by muggles. Fortunately, there was a nurse on the right wing's 4th floor who was also a witch. Though she didn't have any formal wizarding education, she knew enough spellwork to heal broken bones and cuts. It it weren't for her, I don't know what I would do. But before I even got the chance to take a step, let alone leave the alley, a dark figure stepped in front of the entrance.

"What the fuck're you doing 'ere?" A gruff voice spat. The man's face was hard to see in the semi-darkness but his body was large and stout, about 2 inches taller than my 5 foot, ten inch frame. His wand was drawn, and although I couldn't see his expression, the angry tone of his voice told me that he wasn't smiling.

"I apologize, sir." I tried to make my voice sound remorseful. "I didn't mean to bother you. I just wanted to sit down and catch my breath for a minute. I'll be going now."

"Oh no you a'int. Don't think I wouldn't recognize that hair o' yours." All the blood rushed out of my face as he said those words. Shit. I knew what was coming, and I didn't think I could handle it. Normally the men who approached me were drunk. They were mean spirited and angry, and although they always got in a few good kicks and punches, I was never left with more than a broken bone or mild hex. But this man sounded enraged, probably because of something that my father or another deatheater had done to him. Though it must have been horrible if he was still so livid over an event that had happened a decade ago, it wasn't because of me and it certainly wasn't my fault. But here I was anyway, slowly being backed into the corner of a dead-end ally with no means to protect myself. It wasn't fair.

"Corpus!" Before I could even so much as dodge out of the way, my body was bound by thick ropes, leaving gravity to do its part and crash me to the ground. The man stepped closer and I wanted to shout, beg, cry even, but each time that I so much as twitched a muscle, the ropes gripped me tighter. The break in my arm was shooting sharp pains towards my chest and I could barely breathe, partly because of the constrictions, but also because of my ribs. The bulky silhouette grew larger until it was standing right over me, his heavy breathing causing his stomach to shrink and expand.

"Thought you'd get away with it, didn't you Malfoy? Maybe you charmed all the Wizengot with your snake smile, but I here didn't forget what your family did. I saw you coming into this alley all smug and shit, and I'm going to make sure that you leave this alley half'er man you came in as." My sweat ran cold, and it only took me a moment to realize how helpless I was. Two seconds later, his heavy boot connected with my stomach. I gagged and bile rose up my esophagus, but in these ropes I couldn't swallow it or dispel it. I began choking, unable to breathe or get rid of the vomit in my throat, while the overweight whale of a man continued to beat, punch, and throw hexes at me all at once. It felt like a lifetime, maybe even two, as each heavy stroke hit my already fragile body. My only salvation was my vision slowly dissipating into complete darkness. Not nearly soon enough, I passed out.

~R/D~

It felt like as soon as my eyes shut, they were once again forced to open and look into the face of the man. Quickly enough, though, I realized that this wasn't the same man from before. I still couldn't see very well, the alley was too dark and my head pulsated angrily with each heartbeat, but the ropes that had held me in place were gone and replaced by gently probing hands that seemed to be searching for my injuries. I let out a hiss; no matter how careful this person's fingers were, my body was so battered that each light touch was painful. I heard some words mumbled under the man's breath, and no sooner than he finished, I felt the alarming need to vomit. Oh Merlin, how humiliating.

I was gently rolled onto my side, and I curled my legs into myself, clutching my stomach as my previous meals forcibly pushed their way up. Whilst I vomited, soft hands ran through my hair and a soothing voice talked to me in low tones. I may have been too tired and injured to be able to understand this person, but his soft rolling lilt was relaxing. So relaxing, in fact, that I hardly noticed when he picked me up and began carrying me.

'It must have been a spell' were the last thoughts to flit through my head before I fell asleep.

* * *

Hi all! After about 4 years of reading and creeping on FF I decided to make a change! This is my first story that I have ever published to FFnet (or really even written!) and writing it so far has been really hard. I would LOVE your advice for improvement. Hopefully my grammar and spelling is up to par; I don't have a beta so it's all spellcheck and googled grammar rules. So please drop me a line and tell me what I'm doing wrong, what I'm doing right, what you're having for lunch, etc.

I should warn you though that I'm entering a really busy time in my life, and while writing chapters periodically may be very therapeutic for me, waiting for ages to know what happens next probably isn't your number one choice of therapy! So be warned! Chapters will come when (and if) they come. Please don't throw things at me! (unless they be cookies, argh!)


	2. Chapter 2

None of this is mine.  
Hello all. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I will be updating much more frequently. Longer author's note at the end!

**CHAPTER 2**

As my eyelids flutter open, my retinas are instantly scarred by not only the daisy yellow room that surrounds me, but also the clashing head full of red hair standing by the doorway. I would sneer at Weasel, really I would, but oh Merlin the pain suddenly hits me so hard that I'm left gasping. My deep breaths only increase the fire within me, and I'm stuck fighting for breath with tears streaming down my face. My body feels like its burning and sore and bruised and even the after-effects of the Cruciatus never hurt this much and-

"Fuck Malfoy, calm down! Stay still! You're only making it worse." Weasley's words are far away sounding. Oh Morgana, I'm dying! The pain is increasing and increasing, and cool hands on my chest- Weasley's- only ease the fire for a second before it's even hotter, and my insides are being roasted alive, and I'm like this for seconds or hours or centuries , but really I know that it's only been 4 minutes because each fucking millisecond registers in my mind, and the cool hands have been gone for 3 minutes before I feel them back at my lips, but no it's not hands it's glass, and something's being poured down my throat and the fire's still there but for some reason I can't feel the pain, and then it's all black.

~R/D~

For the second time this day my eyes open. And for the second time, I hurt. This time, however, it is more of a dull, aching pain than the stabbing burning agony I had gone through earlier. I'm more awake and I'm aware enough to realize that my mouth tastes strongly of sick and pain-relieving potion. I would really love to have that flavor removed from my taste buds and as I try to lift my body off the bed I realize I cannot get up for two reasons; the first being that I'm too weak to even move my hand up to brush my fringe, and the second that a pair of muscular arms have suddenly grabbed my body and done the job for me, lifting my torso and propping some pillows behind it so that I fall back gently onto the cushions. My eyelids are then held open while a freckled face draws extremely close and stares intently into my eyes. He's so close that I could kiss him. Not that I would, because he's still Weasel, but let's be honest, no one's impervious to a good looking bloke with his face shoved near yours.

"Your eyes are all bloodshot and you look like shit, Malfoy." That was rude! I open my mouth to respond, but before I can even get a syllable in Weasel continues, "But better shit than dead, yeah?" My mouth clamps shut. Fuck. My head nods a fraction of an inch, because, let's face it, he is correct. Suddenly, any nasty retort I have about his family or hair color is gone; I'm in no mood to fight back.

Until, that is, a nasty shit eating grin fills Weasel's face, spurring me back to my aggressive mode. But as I open my mouth to let loose the rudest of insult (involving, of course, his family's financial status and their breeding habits) nothing comes out. I try a second time and this time a rasp leaves my throat, leading me into a coughing fit that ends up with me doubled over, coughing blood into my sleeve. Weasel's smile dims slightly until it altogether fades. There's an indescribable emotion on his face and while I can't read it, I sincerely hope its not pity. I can't stand pity.

"I'll get you a new shirt. And then we'll be discussing some stuff." He doesn't wait for my shrug in response, instead, walking out of the room and returning a minute later with a new pajama top for me. It's Gryffindor red. I certainly should have predicted that.

"Alright, well, let's get that off you then." I lift my trembling hands up to the first button, but Weasley beats me to it, whipping out his wand and spelling off my shirt in less than a second. The cool air of the room shocks me but what alarms me the most is Weasel's gaze on my chest. I'm scared of what I'll see if I look down and I want to stop my eyes from advancing downwards but my curiosity gets the better of me and I peek.

The sight that greets me is horrendous. My vanity has long since disappeared over the past decade, but even a leper would be disgusted by what I saw marring my chest. A large white bandage, parts of it tinted red, is wrapped around my abdomen and the skin that is still visible has been marred by bruises and burns and patches of decaying skin -oh Merlin- There is no pale ivory skin any longer, just a sea of deep reds and blues and blacks. I can't handle this. I feel the vomit climb up my esophagus and as it exits my mouth, Weasley is there, sitting on the bed next to me and rubbing my back lightly with one uncomfortably callused hand while the other holds a bowl under my mouth. All I can do is gasp and sob and retch and tremble and I don't even have the heart in me to be embarrassed. Ironic how earlier Weasley was asking me to 'let go of my stupid family pride'. Don't worry Weasel, its all gone by now.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry Malfoy."

Weasley's harsh whisper pulls me out of my downward spiral into reality. I've finally stopped retching and shuddering, and I sit here staring at my feet. I can't speak to him, as earlier tests have discovered that my voice is shot, and my only response is to shiver in the frigid air of the room. I'm not wearing a shirt after all, though Weasley's hand on my back, however rough it is, provides a comforting warmth. Weasel, using all ten brain cells of his, finally spells the hideous red shirt onto my body and I'm spared another glimpse of my damaged torso. I continue staring at my feet. At least I have all ten toes.

"I'm not saying this is my fault, because it bloody well isn't." Weasel continues. "And if you hadn't been so foolish to reject my offer of help, this wouldn't even be an issue, but even I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. "

I continue staring at my feet. I'm probably too pathetic to be his worst enemy.

"Merlin's balls, Malfoy. I know you can't talk and all but sitting there so quiet? Do you even realize what's been done to you? I'm going to have to take at least three days off of work to sit at home and nurse you like a little child."

I continue staring at my feet. My face is considerably redder, having flushed with anger and resentment as he shared his last sentence with me. No one asked him to save me. In fact, if I'm such a bother, maybe he should have just left me there. Weasel notices my grimace.

"Shit, I'm not trying to upset you." He lowers his voice a little and the puffs of air from his remarks find their way into my ear, making me shiver and forget my anger. "I know it wasn't your fault, Malfoy. Rumor is that you've become some sort of a token scapegoat for death eaters. But what happened last night isn't your run of the mill broken bones, and its going to take a little while to get better. So we're just going to have to deal with it." His hand reaches into his pocket and a small bottle of liquid is pulled out, quickly expanding as it is pulled into the open air.

"I'm just going to give you a bit more pain draught. Hopefully you won't get the same wake up call as earlier." I shudder as I remember the fiery pain and I try to reach my hand out to grab the vial, but all I can do is lift my shaking limb up a few inches. Weasley sees this, and with a little furrow of his eyebrows, he uses one hand to stroke the hair at the back of my head, tilting my head backwards, and the other to pour the potion into my mouth. I swallow and soon enough, I feel the familiar numbing sensation traveling through my body. Weasley's hands have moved to the nape of my neck, and his gentle massage, combined with the heavy feeling in my arms and legs due to the potion make my eyelids droop. I fall asleep.

* * *

Hello again. First off, I want to apologize. You all took the time to read my stories and review and it took me this long to update. That's really unacceptable, and I feel horrible. Your reviews were/are awesome and I love reading them so much; now I really understand why authors love 'em. The busy time in my life has passed (thank goodness) and I have made it a goal to update much much much more frequently. I actually plan to write a bit each day (although I'm getting my wisdom teeth out on Tuesday and I'll be on percocet for a bit afterwards, so we'll see how that chapter goes...), but my hope is to be putting out 1 to 2 chapters a month!

This chapter is a bit short, but its my first step in a whole new direction. I hope this AN brought you good news and thank you so much for not giving up. Rock on!


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